


The Things Never Asked For

by ToastersOverdose



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Long, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, Other, Past Brainwashing, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Violence, but i want to make it very enjoyable and realistic, i don't know where i'm quite going with this yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9947753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToastersOverdose/pseuds/ToastersOverdose
Summary: She never asked to remember, she never asked to forget.Yet the memories came crawling back.





	

Another chilling wind wrapped around the graveyard. Silent was the frosty night, in which no one dared to leave home. It was perhaps one of the coldest days of the year so far; for as the darkest hours approached, it was all the more teeth-chattering cold. 

Snow fell onto the lonely graves, piling over layers of ice. It fell heavily, almost as if it were a rain storm that would never cease. The moon, nearing the middle of the sky, could not be seen; gray clouds covered the large, bright mass, only a faint glow visible through the gloomy sky. It did not provide much light whatsoever; for the crescent was waning, and the radius at which the low brightness spread was small.

Yet, even on such a night, a visitor approached the stubby stone walls of the massive graveyard. Her body was not to be seen; it was covered by masses of coats and scarves—not a peck of skin showed. The mysterious guest reached out to the gates, testing to see if it was open. 

Locked, as she had expected. 

Scoffing under her breath with disappointment, she stomped (for the snow was heavy) to the right side of the gate. She began to wipe the thick, white powder off of the wall. After she was satisfied with her job, the guest propped herself up on the stone, away from the graveyard. Suddenly, she whipped herself around half-circle. Stepping down, she now found herself within the boundaries of the desolate burial ground. 

The mysterious woman turned around to look at the gate again and let out a light sound of amusement. Of course the gate would have been locked. It was dumb to even try it anyways, considering how it served no purpose whatsoever, and access was easier by climbing over the short wall.

Boots already covered in snow, the feminine figure began to walk forward; there was no use in taking the pathway, for it was covered in ice. Older layers of snow crunched under the pressure of her feet, while the building layers stuck to her thick pants. It was still a bit of a struggle to get around, but the fresh snow made it easier to navigate the graveyard.

She took a deep breath, holding it; she knew what she had to do, and, deep down, she felt the guilt with it. It was never a nice trip out to the middle of nowhere, as the woman didn’t much care for memory lane. But, each year, she came back to do what she felt was obligated of her. There was the gut feeling the woman had, and she partially hated it—that small sense of emotion of her was still left, when she was told it had been removed from her brain all those years.

This was the only time she accepted the fact. The spite remained, but she felt it was her duty to pull through all of it—to remember. 

The woman’s breaths were becoming a little bit quicker now, as did her pace; for once, she felt the heat in her freezing body, despite all the thick articles of clothing that were clad to her frail form. She was eager now, and she wanted to get it over with. 

Approaching her destination, the guest slowed her pace again. Each time she lifted her foot felt like a struggle, as if someone had bound her ankles with ball and chain. Constantly, she reminded herself to just pull through, for it would be over soon.

The grave the woman set her sights on was no different than any other grave in the lonesome courtyard. All of them stood about two feet high, made of some gray cobblestone. The only difference were the engravings. 

But even then, the engravings weren’t added until after the war. It’s been said all the bodies were recorded, but speculations arose.

Despite the controversy, the woman saw this particular grave as a symbol; she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it actually represented, but she knew who it was. Perhaps that was the thing that hurt the most.

The woman knelt down in front of the grave, her feet nearly touching it. She kept her eyes off of it to the best of her ability; though, that wouldn’t help what she felt at all. The odd female brought her hand to her coat pocket, more delicately than one may expect. Between her gloves, she felt the silky and sharp qualities the object had to offer before removing it from its confinement. 

The rose was wilted now, its red petals browning a bit at the edges. It didn’t look nearly as plump as the day the woman acquired it. However, the deep red which the flower showed off was still there, especially towards the middle. The stem also suffered from damages, the thorns brown at the ends. It appeared to bend to the left more than normal, too; the bend wasn’t so loose that it would break, but it was halfway to that point. 

The woman’s cold eyes stared at the dismantled rose. It seemed that, every year, the rose would become even more crippled than the one from the year before. She wondered if it could be a sign, but quickly scrapped the idea—it was a ridiculous thought.

Gingerly, the strange woman placed the wilted flower on the grave, fingers lightly brushing the fresh snow. She pressed it down a little just so it wouldn’t sway away with the rushing wind.

A small part of her wanted to laugh. The irony of the situation stuck to her like an irritating burr caught in thread; it was something she couldn’t quite get rid of, something that would never cease. And to think that she was putting a rose on one of the many she had slaughtered in cold blood made her slowly boil with rage.

With a huff, the woman left the grave, propping herself quickly back onto her feet. She sauntered away from the cemetery as swiftly as possible, every thought in her head telling her not to look back.

Even so, such efforts would have no effect, as the name on the stone was as closely engraved to her heart as it was to the grave.

 

Gérard Lacroix.

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! Thanks for the read. 
> 
> For a while now, I've found myself wondering about Widowmaker, and how the brainwashing has affected her in the long run. Seeing her in Reflections at her husband's grave really inspired me.
> 
> Updates for right now are uncertain, but I'll try to write a few more chapters before posting another one. Thanks again, and have a wonderful day!


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